Ferdy, look for work.
Ferdy, you eat too much.
Ferdy, beer has given you that gut.
Ferdy, the least you could do is to help me clear the table.
Ferdy, Im on my feet all day long. And what do you do? You sit.
He especially liked sitting in front of the television. From the moment his wife caught the Golden Arrow at the bus stop in front of the Old Ship Caravan Park until programming ended with a religious broadcast in the evening.
Ferdys lack of knowledge of the murders was due to the fact that there was no way the SABC could give its attention to every murder in the country. After all, it was a national news service and covered only major events. Thats why there had been no mention at all of the death of James J. Wallace or that of Drew Wilson. So in a certain sense it could be said that the South African Broadcasting Corporation carried some culpability in the death of Ferdy Ferreira.
Not that they would ever know.
Joubert knocked at the door of the dilapidated house in Boston and considered the fact that it was only two blocks away from the late Drew Wilsons. His heart rate increased and he slid the palm of his hand over the Z88 to reassure himself that it was still there.
The fax from records had stated that there were sixteen registered Mauser Broomhandles in the Cape Peninsula.
Joubert had divided the list of names between himself and Gerrit Snyman because there was no one else. The other detectives who were not on standby were in court as witnesses conclusive evidence that they had done their work successfully in the past year. Snyman was new. And Mat Joubert . . .
The door opened. A woman stood there, large, middle-aged, and ugly. Her features the eyes, the mouth, the nose were uniformly small and unattractive in the center of her face so that she resembled a reptile.
Mrs. Stander?
Yes. Impatiently.
He introduced himself and explained why he was there. They had to check every Mauser in the Peninsula to see whether it had been fired.
Come in. She turned and walked down the passage. Joubert saw that her shoulders were broad and thought she looked like a murderer. He could see her in his minds eye, this hunk of a woman, in front of James J. Wallace and next to Drew Wilsons car.
She hesitated at the sitting room door. Wait here. She gestured with her hand and walked on down the passage. He walked into the sitting room and sat down in a chair, ill at ease. And he was vaguely amused by his discomfort. His job was to seek out murderers without discrimination beautiful and ugly, fat and thin, old and young. It was only in films and on television that the murderer was always an aesthetically unattractive stereotype.
But when he heard Mrs. Standers heavy footsteps in the passage again, he kept his hand close to his service pistol and balanced his body so that he could get up easily.
She had a wooden chest in her hands. She came to sit next to him and wordlessly offered the chest.
He took it. He saw the carving on it a scene of Boer soldiers on their horses, the fine detail of the animals, of the mens hats and waistcoats and firearms, precisely and lovingly etched into the wood. He touched the small work of art, amazed.
My grandfather made it on St. Helena, the woman said. He was an officer. And a prisoner of war there, of course.
He opened the chest.
Hed seen the drawing, the graphic representation of the Mauser in
Die Burger
that morning, remembered its shape and appearance. But the graphics hadn't prepared him for the metal and the wood, the curves and contrasts of the weapon.
It didn't look like a murder weapon.
The line of the barrel, the angle it formed with the slender stock, was feminine a soft, sensual curve. The magazine, square, chunky, and blunt, was an abruptness in front of the trigger, like a male sexual organ, unattractive but effective. He lifted the Mauser out of the chest. It felt lighter than it looked. WAFFENFABRIK MAUSER OBERNDORF, he read on the frame. He turned the pistol over, looked down the barrel, sniffed in the odor of black metal and dark wood.
He knew that this wasn't the weapon.
You must oil it, he told Mrs. Stander, who sat forward in her chair, her eyes never leaving his face. Theres rust in the barrel. You must oil it well. Then he placed the weapon carefully and respectfully back into the chest.
When he drove to Paarl, to the next Mauser owner on his list, he speculated about the murderer. Why this weapon? Why choose a pistol that attracted attention like a beacon burning in the night? Why use ammunition that was a century old, and could leave you, at that heart-stopping moment, in the lurch? Was it a political statement after all?
The voice of the Boer is not stilled.
Two victims, one English-speaking, a ladies man, one Afrikaans-speaking, gay.
Our Boer voice is not stilled and we still shoot the English and queers.
No, it was too simple. Too one-dimensional. It might be a statement but on another level. A way of attracting attention. Of saying:
Im different. Im special.
The other seven names and addresses on his list took him to two retirement homes, three pensioners, and two amateur weapon collectors. He saw four different Mauser Broomhandle models, each subtly different from the other, each one with its own chilling charm.
He found no suspect on his list.
In the late afternoon he drove back to Cape Town. In the city, at a stoplight on the way to Dr. Hanna Nortiers consulting rooms, the
Argus
paperboy stood next to the car. Joubert read the headline with ease:
BLAST FROM THE PAST.
17.
When he followed her through the door he noticed that she was wearing a dress in a plain design, dark blue material patterned with small red and orange flowers. It covered her to below her knees. He could see the muscle and bone of her shoulders and wondered who her dietitian was.
They sat down.
He saw that her frail beauty was pale today, the smile polite but not warm, slightly forced.
And how is Captain Mat Joubert? she asked and opened his file.
What should he say? Fine.
Have you come to terms with the fact that youre consulting a psychologist?
Yes. Not the whole truth, because hed looked forward to the visit. Hed chewed over this peculiarity between visits to Mauser Broomhandle owners in the Cape. Hed speculated, considered possibilities, because there wasn't one reason only. After the previous visit it seemed as if the abscess in his head . . . the pressure had decreased and the gray curtain between him and life had taken on a paler hue.
Then there was the other tale, Dr. Hanna. The heartrending story of the Fucking Stupid Policeman and the Undertakers Daughter. A thriller in one short act with a twist in the tail. Psychologists dream, Dr. Hanna. So many nuances to investigate. Self-image, sex . . .
He surprised himself when he realized that he wanted to speak to Hanna Nortier about it. About his relief that his sexual urge still existed. About the humiliation. He wanted to know whether he had been programmed for humiliation.